


Ashes Arisen

by HanZheo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Identity Porn, Kinda, M/M, Magic Realms, Merlin as Emrys, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Pining Arthur, Pre-Slash, Protective Arthur, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2020-07-12 11:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19945333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HanZheo/pseuds/HanZheo
Summary: 'At Emrys’ feet Merlin will fall, and from Merlin’s demise he shall rise.'That's what the prophecy had said, after all.More specifically: Arthur is sent on a quest with the powerful warlock Emrys and strikes up an unwilling friendship. It feels like betrayal, when Emrys was the one who killed Merlin all those years ago.





	1. The Burning

Arthur is only a prince when the first whispers of the prophecy reach him. He’s young and idealistic, sheltered by a father who’s borne the harshness of rule for him, and the morning of the day he hears the prophecy, he’s on his way to the weapons’ room to pick out a sword for the afternoon’s training.

When he enters the armoury, he finds a certain hapless manservant asleep across the polishing table. For a brief moment, Arthur has half a mind to walk over and hit him upside the head for sleeping on the job. He expels the thought quickly, appalled at himself for thinking such a thing.

Merlin’s looks peaceful, smiling even in his sleep, lips quirked up in the corners. Arthur gives a fond sigh and brushes the hair from his face, noting that Merlin’s fringe was in need of a trim. Then, carefully, he moves the sword out from Merlin’s hands lest the idiot hurt himself with it in his sleep.

The door to the armoury flings open as Gwaine bursts in. Catching sight of Arthur, Gwaine’s expression lights up immediately. “Your highness, I’ve been looking for you all over the castle - !”

Arthur gives him a fierce look, jabbing a finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. He nods in Merlin’s direction, who gives a small stir before settling back to sleep. Gwaine puts up both hands in peace.

“You’re back from your quest,” says Arthur, after moving to the hallway and closing the door behind him. “Have you reported to the King yet?”

“I’ve just come back from his receiving room,” Gwaine answers. He casts a cautious look around the hallway and shifts from foot to foot, causing Arthur’s suspicion to rise immediately. “Only, well, there may be some things I left out of my report.” At Arthur’s deadpan look, he fidgets more uncomfortably. “I thought it would be wiser to tell you instead.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, à la Gaius. “Well?” he asks.

Gwaine checks the corridor one last time before leaning in an lowering his voice. “I ran into some druids on my quest.” At Arthur’s bewildered expression, he barrels on, “They told me… things. A prophecy, of sorts. Sire, you know that druidic prophecies are almost always right.”

“What did they say?” Arthur asks.

“To be honest, I didn’t catch most of it, it all seemed like a bunch of drivel to me,” Gwaine admitted, and Arthur fought the urge to throw his arms up into the air. “I did catch one part though, which I thought would be of interest!” he added defensively when Arthur’s expression turned to annoyance. “Something about Merlin. _At Emrys’ feet Merlin will fall, and from Merlin’s demise he shall rise_.”

Arthur’s blood runs ice cold. He squares his shoulders to mask the involuntary shudder. “Was there anything else?”

Gwaine shakes his head. Arthur fights the urge to hit him. A prophecy foretelling Merlin’s death, and the daft knight can’t give him any more detail as to how it’ll happen, or how he could prevent it.

“It’s just a stupid prophecy,” Arthur says when he’s finally able to speak again. He thinks about the boy who’s currently sleeping tranquilly in the room behind them, at the way the soft puffs of air leaves his lips in even measures. He imagines Merlin never breathing again and crushes that image the second it appears in his mind. “Nothing’s going to happen to Merlin. You said it yourself, it’s a load of drivel.”

“Perhaps we should be more wary, sire.”

“Gwaine, nothing will happen to Merlin. I won’t _let_ anything to him.” Arthur’s eyes take on a dangerous glint that disturbs Gwaine to his core. “Whoever this Emrys is, if he so much as lays a hand on Merlin, I’ll kill him.”

oOo

Uther’s body isn’t even cold in its grave when Morgana launches her attack. Presumably she thinks Camelot would be poorly protected in its mourning - if so, she’s sorely mistaken.

Arthur shouts orders at his troops. He himself hurries to the ground floor to meet Morgana and her army head-on. Even in his state of grief, he knows what’s expected of him as the new king. So he swallows his feelings and fights, channeling all his sorrow into battle, until suddenly he hears Morgana say, “He must be here, it must be Emrys! Find me Emrys!”

It’s a name Arthur hasn’t heard in a long time and it takes him a while to figure out where he’s heard it before, but in that moment, his heart stops. In that moment he can only think, when did he last see Merlin?

Cold, raw fear gnaws at his stomach. He shoves his sword into the sorcerer in front of him and whirls around where he stands, searching the battleground for his manservant. Then a body slams into him and he stumbles to the ground.

No, he has a duty to his people, he thinks, shoving the fallen corpse off of him and crawling to his feet. First, he must protect his kingdom, and then he can go find Merlin.

His soul cries as he pushes thoughts of Merlin from his mind and forces himself back into battle.

In the end, they don’t even find a body.

Less than a day ago, Arthur had lost his own flesh-and-blood father. He thought he’d never know pain like that again, but he’d been wrong. This is much worse, he thinks, sliding down the wall and curling in on himself as he cries, items in his room smashed to pieces. It’s all his fault, because he’d known about the prophecy all along, and if he’d have just gotten to Merlin earlier…

There isn’t even a body for him to clutch in despair, isn’t even any proof that Merlin is gone for good to offer some form of closure. For all he knows, Merlin could’ve taken a wrong turn in the castle and is simply lost in the corridors. The thought makes Arthur laughs, because it’s completely believable for someone of Merlin’s nature, and with that laugh his heart breaks into a million pieces. Merlin will never be there again to make him smile.

“What did he even do to you,” Arthur manages through gritted teeth, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Why him?”

The name Emrys etches itself into his mind and Arthur promises himself that he will hate him for all eternity.

oOo

Somewhere in the mountains, some distance beyond Camelot’s borders, a person awakens. In some months, perhaps even a year, the person will remember who he is, and how he ended up there. For now, though, he lies in a state of pain and confusion.

Later, he will find that he’s in a temple isolated in the mountains. After several days, he will go exploring and discover a crystalline pond further up the hills, as well as a little town at the foot of the mountain.

Most importantly, in a week, he will find some tablets in his new home that offers him some compelling information.

And so, he-who-was-once-Merlin is laid to rest, and Emrys is born.


	2. The Fire

Several years into Arthur’s rule as king, the crops begin to fail. At first they think it merely a spell of bad weather, or perhaps an infestation of some kind. It might even be a particularly poor batch of seeds. All in all, most of Arthur’s advisors assure him the phenomenon will soon come to pass.

It isn’t until the following year do several alarming events occur: arable land crumbling into quicksand, whole chunks of forests withering into dust, rivers drying up without warning. The line of peasants requesting food aid grows ever longer outside the castle, and panic begins to spread.

“It is not uncommon for natural disasters to occur every once in a while, sire,” one of Arthur’s advisors bravely speaks up during a meeting.

Arthur sits at his seat, one hand propping up his chin and the other tapping against the armrest impatiently. “Yesterday, the earth was quaking. An earth quake if you will. The people are starving, and the land is dying. I don’t care if the disaster is natural or not, I want a solution.”

The advisors exchange troubled looks, but all seem at a loss for words. With a sigh, Arthur sits up straight. “All right. See to it that the people lined up outside the castle are given aid. Send our most knowledgeable people to the local farmlands and see if we can find out what’s wrong with the crops. Try to establish trade with our neighbouring kingdoms, although it’s imperative they don’t find out about the crisis. I’ll expect further reports of this tomorrow morning.” He waves a hand to dismiss them.

As the last of the advisors leave the room, Arthur puts his head in his hands. He hurriedly sits back up when Leon enters.

“Your highness, Gaius requests an audience with you.”

“Send him in,” Arthur turns attentive when the elderly physician walks in the room. “Gaius,” he greets respectfully, standing up to indicate there’s no need for the man to bow.

“Sire,” Gaius lowers his head nonetheless. “I’m sure you are doing your utmost to handle the predicament in which we currently preside.”

“I’ve sent people to take care of the situation,” says Arthur.

“I worry whether they will be able to find a solution,” says Gaius, giving Arthur a significant look. “I have been doing some research on my own, sire, and I have troubling news. Although, I must request permission to speak of it with you. The subject matter is potentially… treasonous.” He ends the sentence pointedly.

Arthur sucks in a breath. “You think this has to do with magic.”

“I know so,” Gaius replies. When Arthur doesn’t make as if to have him dragged into the dungeons for saying so, he continues. “I am fairly confident in saying that these are symptoms that the magical core beneath the earth is unstable. The energy is thus lashing out and destabilising the region. It is a fairly common problem in lands where the magical core is potent, and Camelot just happens to be amongst those regions.”

“But I’ve never heard of anything like this happening in Camelot,” says Arthur.

“Ahh,” says Gaius, in a tone suggesting that the conversation was taking a turn towards an inevitable yet undesired direction. “Well. Before recent history, Camelot had caretakers of the land that sowed and plowed the land with magic. Kind of like the bees with the flowers, if you will. Do you know what pollination is, sire?” At Arthur’s blank look Gaius shook his head. “Never mind. The point is, when your father ordered the wiping out of all the dragons in the land, what he really did was destroy our means of cultivating earth’s magical core, creating a buildup of magical residue.”

Arthur’s look changes from blank to suspicious. “Dragons?”

Here, Gaius’ careful façade finally begins to crack, and he wrings his hands nervously. “At risk of suggesting a punishable idea, sire, I have to say we may have to bring the dragons back.”

“Bring them back?” Arthur nearly shouts in incredulity. “The last time a dragon was set loose in Camelot, Gaius, it razed half the castle and caused dozens of casualties!”

“Sire, that dragon was kept prisoner and harboured a resentment against Camelot, it is hardly representative of the temperament of a typical dragon. Most importantly, though, the only beings powerful enough to singlehandedly cull Camelot’s magical core are the dragons. If we do not bring them back, then the land will continue to die. We would have to evacuate the kingdom.”

Arthur shakes his head. “There must be some other way.”

Gaius puts a sympathising hand on his shoulder. “If there were another way, sire, I would not have suggested this.” He catches Arthur’s eyes and gives him a piercing stare. “I know what kind of king you are, Arthur. You will always put the wellbeing of your people first, even if that means going against your own preconceptions.”

Arthur’s shoulders sag. “Even if I agreed with you, Gaius, my father wiped the dragons out. I killed the last one. There are no more of them.”

“There are no more dragons of this realm,” Gaius corrects. “Hypothetically, if one were to open the gateway into the magical realm, they would be able to bring the dragons of that realm back here. One would have to be, or at least need, a powerful sorcerer, though.”

“And where would I find such a sorcerer, and one who would be willing to set foot in Camelot of all places?”

“There have been rumours of a warlock,” Gaius tells him. He speaks cautiously, gauging Arthur’s reaction. “He’s built quite a reputation around himself as a benevolent miracle worker, and they say his work is incredible. I hear he’s also a dragonlord, which would be an added benefit to the nature of this task.

Arthur, who had slowly begun to realise where Gaius was bringing the conversation, feels his heartbeat quicken.

“You speak of Emrys,” he says in a dead voice. He sounds calmer than he feels.

“Again, sire, I would not ask this of you if the fate of Camelot did not depend on it.”

The Arthur of yesteryears would have laughed in Gaius’ face and walked out of the throne room right then, fate of Camelot be damned. But Arthur is the king, has been for some time now, and he’s always loved his people more than he loved himself.

It still takes some effort not to smash the flowerpot on the nearby stand, though.

oOo

For a task of such magnitude, Arthur decides to take on the quest himself. Of course, this also means that he has to delay his departure by several days; the mass hysteria that takes place after his decree to the public takes a while to put to rest.

He leaves Leon in charge while he’s gone and turns down Gwaine’s request to accompany him. They need as many hands in Camelot as they can get.

Gaius only gives him a general area of where Emrys is rumoured to be, toward which Arthur rides. It’s a lot less helpful than if he’d given him an actual location. He hopes the man isn’t a nomad or anything.

At last Arthur arrives in a village beyond the borders of Camelot, and when he asks a villager about the elusive Emrys, her eyes alight in recognition.

“Oh, yes, he lives right along those mountains,” she says, pointing a pudgy finger at the hills in the near distance. “Not sure if he’s home, though, he often sets off to tend to the needs of nearby villages.”

“How long does he usually leave for?” Arthur asks.

“Oh, not long,” the woman assures him. “He travels rather quickly. The children like to think that he flies.”

“Right,” says Arthur, and thanks her. Rearing his horse, he sets off again towards the mountains.

Arthur feels a chill down the back of his neck as soon as he rides into the mountains. There’s a distinctly unsettling presence in the air which spooks his horse. He gives him an assuring rub along the neck and urges him forward up the trails.

Though the woman never gave him a precise location in the mountains, it’s as if Arthur knows exactly where to go. There are certainly no foot trails through the trees - maybe Emrys does know how to fly, Arthur thinks - but there’s a nudge in the back of his mind pushing him in the right direction.

At last he reaches a small opening in the trees where a stone temple is erect in the clearing. Putting his instincts on alert, he coaxes his horse to the fence that closes off the front garden and dismounts.

“Be a good lad, now,” he pats his horse, raking the temple up and down with his eyes. It looks abandoned, he thinks as he approaches, hoping that he’s got the right place. Still wary, he circles the building for any sign of life when he notices a figure tending to some plants in the back garden. He’s taken aback. He hadn’t expected to run into Emrys so soon.

It takes him a moment to reign in the sudden flare of anger in the pit of his stomach. He braces himself when he finally calls out.

“Emrys.”

The man turns around and startles when he sees Arthur, who revels in a brief moment of satisfaction at having startled the allegedly all-powerful warlock. He barely has a chance to look at the man’s face before the warlock brings a hand across it, leaving a cloud of black smoke that clings around his eyes like a mask.

“King Arthur,” Emrys bows. His voice sounds like a hundred voices, all layered one over the other. If it’s meant to be an intimidation tactic then it doesn’t work on Arthur, and he can’t help a sneer curl over his lips.

“You know me.”

“Of course,” says Emrys, one of his hands fidgeting with his sleeves in the way Arthur recognises as a nervous tick. “I’ve been expecting this day, although I hadn’t imagined it would come quite so quickly. What brings you here, my Lord?”

Emrys’ disconcert surprises Arthur a little, but he quickly recollects himself when he speaks. “My kingdom has fallen on ill times,” he replies. “The magical core beneath Camelot has become unstable and I need a sorcerer to help me bring back the cultivators of the land.”

For a moment, Emrys stares at him blankly. “You want to bring back the dragons?” he asks, putting rather more emphasis on the ‘you’ than Arthur thinks is deserved.

Trust me, I wouldn’t be doing this if I had literally any other option, Arthur thinks. “I don’t like seeing my people suffer,” he says instead.

Emrys’ lips part as if in understanding. “Of course,” he says. “I’m happy to offer my assistance in any way you require, my King.”

Arthur, who was expecting more resistance, frowns in suspicion. “Just like that?”

Emrys fidgets with his sleeve again, even as he stands a little taller and speaks in a firmer voice. “It has been prophesied that I will aid you in uniting the kingdoms, sire. It is my destiny to stand by your side. I will be happy to serve you until the day I die.”

The thought of having any destiny with Emrys causes the bile to rise to Arthur’s throat, but it’s for a different reason entirely that tears suddenly prickle at his eyes. He thinks of the same words spoken with utter devotion by someone else so many years ago. He can’t imagine Emrys replacing Merlin. Suddenly he can’t draw breath as easily as he would like and he has to clench his teeth to smother the hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest.

“Your majesty?” Emrys asks when Arthur still hasn’t responded.

I don’t want anything to do with you, is the response Arthur wants to give. He doesn’t think insulting the only man that could help him is a smart idea, though, and he doubts his sword would be enough to defend him against Emrys. So, he nods his head tightly and allows Emrys to invite him into the temple.

oOo

As Emrys tells him, it would be much too difficult to travel far in the magical realm without getting killed, so they have to travel first to the corresponding area in their realm before opening the portal.

They set off on their horses and, at least for the first couple of days, Emrys tries to strike up a conversation. The man has many questions about either Camelot or Arthur himself, none of which Arthur is willing to answer. By the second day, Emrys realises that Arthur is in no mood to talk. He seems to think it has something to do with Arthur’s prejudice against sorcerers, and Arthur lets him think so. At least it allows them to ride in silence.

This doesn’t discourage Emrys from trying to get close to Arthur, though. At one point he picks two apples as they pass through a stretch of forest ripe in fruit and tosses one to Arthur. It’s a near miss that Arthur doesn’t toss it reflexively on the ground, instead holding onto it with white knuckles. He throws it out later when Emrys isn’t looking.

On the second night, Emrys tries to speak to him as they camp out under the stars.

“Do you see those three stars up there?” he points at three vibrant specks that form a perfect line. “If you connect them with the stars slightly higher, like this,” he draws the lines out with his finger, “they form the constellation Orion. In some mythologies, he was said to have been a great hunter who incurred the wrath of a deity. But I suppose he was well-liked, and they put him up into the stars.”

“I was never interested in fairytales,” Arthur cuts across harshly. Emrys lowers his arm as if the sky had suddenly burned it, and perhaps Arthur would feel guilty if his heart isn’t aching for the last time he was camped out alone with someone and Merlin was chattering away excitedly while he was trying to sleep. Waving a metaphorical arm to dispel the memories, Arthur turns on his side with his back to Emrys’ direction and tries to fall asleep.

Eventually they ride out of the forest and reach the outskirts of civilisation. They first reach farmland where a couple of friendly townsfolk invite the two to stay in their cottage. Arthur more than gratefully accepts, glad to sleep on anything other than damp grass and to have an excuse to finally talk to people.

There’s hot dinner on the table that evening which Arthur is thankful to see, even though the dishes are humble. The matriarch of the house looks rather abashed.

“I wish we had some more sturdy food for you weary travellers, but the crops have suffered a poor season,” she says as she sets down a steaming pot of potato stew. “Even some of the chickens had to go without feed.”

Emrys looks at her with positive alarm. “Perhaps I could take a look at the fields after dinner?” he asks politely.

“Oh, of course, though I’m afraid there’s little you can do,” their host says, still smiling at him warmly. “William will lead you out after dinner, then.”

After they finish the meal, Emrys and Arthur follow William to where the crops are being grown. The elderly man takes of his hat solemnly as he surveys the meager field.

“It’s the seeds, is what it is,” he says, shaking his head sadly. “Bad batch of seeds. We’re the only family who’s had this problem.”

Emrys steps forward, crouching by a stalk of corn. Taking its wilted leaf in his palm, he studies it for a moment before closing his eyes. Then, he exhales softly.

Where the stalk had been drooping just seconds before, it slowly erects itself, regaining a healthy green colour onto its yellow leaves. William gives a shout of amazement.

Rising to his feet, Emrys walks through the remainder of the plants, trailing his fingers over them. Like sleeping children awaking from a long slumber, the plants rise in his wake, foliage extending and flowers forming instantly. He walks the entire field and circles back around, beaming at a trembling William.

“You - You - Who are you?” the old man asks, holding Emrys’ hands in his own. Tears of happiness trickle down his cheeks.

“I’m Emrys,” the man replies simply. “This was the least I could do to repay your kindness for housing myself and my friend here.”

“Emrys,” William’s expression lights up in recognition. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Thank you.”

Though Arthur had recoiled when Emrys called him his friend, William’s genuine gratitude warms his heart. He smiles sheepishly when William turns his attention onto him and shakes his hand heartily.

The following day they say goodbye to William and his wife. However, they don’t make it far before Emrys finds another villager in need of his help, and then another, and then another. They spend an entire afternoon waiting for him to brew some kind of concoction for a boy who is seriously ill. However, when the boy’s mother holds the child to her breast to pour the medicine down his throat and he blinks open bleary eyes, awake for the first time in days, Arthur supposes the sacrifice was worth it.

By the time they finally make it out of the town, they leave behind an entire population buzzing about Emrys and his generosity.

And yet, cold contempt sits in Arthur’s chest.

It’s clear that Emrys acts this way to build a reputation. Would he have saved the farmer if he didn’t know the man would tell his neighbours the very next day? Would he have cured the boy if his mother did not tout him as a miracle worker all around the town?

A truly charitable man does not murder good, innocent people. And Emrys had killed the kindest, purest soul that Arthur had known, and then had the audacity to proclaim himself as Arthur’s friend, that the two had a shared destiny.

These thoughts plague Arthur for a good while, so much so that he doesn’t even realise his horse is about to step over something until Emrys gives a shout. Startled out of his thoughts, Arthur tugs on his reigns to pull his horse back.

There’s a small, twitching ball of feathers right by Arthur’s horse’s hoof. Emrys jumps down from his own horse and runs over, gently taking the creature into his hands.

“Oh, you poor dear,” he tells the bird. “You’ve got a mangled wing.”

Arthur slides off his horse as well, watching Emrys stroke the bird to calm it down. Then, with a few muttered words, he rubs his palm across its bad wing. The bird shakes itself, chirping happily. Emrys lifts his hands in the air, watching as it takes to the skies, a small smile at his lips.

It’s in that moment that Arthur realises something, more so than he had watching Emrys perform all those miracles in the village, because here there’s nobody else watching. Here, Emrys has nothing to gain by fixing the wing of a lame bird, other than one possible explanation.

“You’re kind,” Arthur finds himself saying before he registers the words.

Emrys looks at him, a curious expression in eyes that are so familiar and blue. His smile turns soft, sad.

The man stands up and claps the feathers from his palms. “Best we get a move on,” he says.

oOo

“I’ve never met a sorcerer who was kind before,” Arthur says out of the blue, after they’ve been riding for a long time.

“I imagine the sorcerers you’ve met would be of a limited type, considering Camelot’s history towards magicians,” Emrys replies in an amused tone.

“Even my own sister…” Arthur trails off, suddenly sad. “My father used to tell me that magic corrupts even the most innocent.”

“With all due respect, sire,” Emrys says quietly, “your father did not understand much about magic.”

Arthur looks away, the dig at his father irritating him even though it was true.

“There’s so much more to magic if only you’re willing to look,” prods Emrys gently.

“My manservant used to have faith in magic, and it got him killed,” Arthur says in a cold voice that decisively ends the conversation.

oOo

They stop at a ravine to allow their horses some rest. Arthur splashes the cool water on his face, rinsing away the sweat and grime from hours of riding. Emrys, for his part, rolls his trousers above his knees and wades into the water.

Arthur watches him as he lets the current run through his fingers, closing his eyes as if the water itself is replenishing his energy. “The water refreshes me,” Emrys explains when he notices Arthur’s inquisitive stare. “Magic always works in tandem with nature, and my magic’s most powerful when I follow nature’s will.”

“Such as?” Arthur asks, because he’s been rather curious about magic for a while now and hasn’t had a good opportunity to ask about it yet.

“Such as, I could stop this current right now, or even make it flow upstream, although it would take a lot of effort,” says Emrys. “But it would take almost nothing for me to do this…”

Emry’s eyes flash gold as he swipes an arm along the ravine, lifting a good chunk of water from the stream. Arthur watches in a mix of fascination and uneasiness as he moulds the water first into the shape of a galloping horse, and then into a falcon flapping its wings. The sunlight catches where the beak should be, giving it an almost metallic structure. Then, Emry’s grin turns wicked.

Arthur barely has time to think before he’s showered head to toe.

He looks up in surprise, but the expression on Emrys’ face is teasing, not malicious. Something clicks inside of him, just as it had all those years ago when he was little and Morgana used to always ride her horse a half-step in front of him, even when he forced his horse forward in a gallop. His father had found it so irritating that they always threw the rest of the party behind.

It’s competitiveness.

He reaches down with his non-magic, mundane, human hands, and swipes forward a wave that soaks Emrys’ shirtfront. The warlock gives an undignified yelp and conjures up an even larger wave that propels towards Arthur.

“Hey, that’s cheating!” Arthur shucks off his boots and heads into the water straight at Emrys. The warlock may beat him in magic, but Arthur still had the physical advantage, and he shoves Emrys until he’s waist-deep in the ravine. He gives him a smug smile until he realises Emrys is reaching forward to pull him in, and all of a sudden he’s turning on his heel and running away.

The rocks beneath his feet are slippery and he wades against the current futilely, the back of his shirt completely soaked as Emrys splashes at him. Changing tactics, Arthur runs back to shore, giving a couple of revenge splashes in the process.

“You can’t possibly think you can catch me,” he yells as he runs across the grass, Emrys giving chase behind him. His heart feels free. He hasn’t tasted freedom like this in so long. There wasn’t much time for horseplay as the king, not even with the knights, not when he was more of a leader than a friend.

“I think you may be underestimating me,” Emrys says, even as he rests his hands on his knees, out of breath. His eyes flash gold again.

Arthur barely has time to think oh, shit, before a tendril of grass wraps around his ankle and sends him barreling into the ground.

“That’s so not fair,” says Arthur, cheek to the ground, but he’s laughing breathlessly into the grass the way he hasn’t laughed in so long.

Emrys is laughing too as he offers a hand to help Arthur up. They stand facing each other, laughing too hard to stop. A breeze blows by, drying their wet hair and clothes instantly.

“Was that magic again?” Arthur asks.

Emrys ducks his head. The glint of the setting sun makes his dark hair look brown in its light. The dark smoke masking his face billows mysteriously in the wind. “Oh, there’s so much I wish I could show you, Arthur.”

Arthur.

He says the name so comfortably, so intimately that Arthur immediately sobers up. Who was the last person to have called him by that name? His father was gone, Merlin was gone, Morgana was certainly gone. He was “My Lord” now, or “Your highness”, or “Your Majesty”. And yet here was Emrys, calling him by his given name like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Emrys must notice Arthur’s change in expression because his smile falls as well. “My apologies, sire,” he says, and doesn’t move when Arthur passes him to get to the horses.

They set up camp as they always do that night, close enough to be within glancing distance yet far enough away that Arthur could stomach falling asleep that night. Just as Arthur feels himself being tugged into the throes of unconsciousness, Emrys speaks.

“Why do you hate me, sire?”

It takes a while for Arthur’s sleep-addled brain to process his statement. “You’re a sorcerer,” he replies when he finally comes up with an answer.

Emrys chuckles darkly. “No, it’s not just that.”

It’s a perfect opportunity for Arthur to confront Emrys, right then and there, on what had happened to Merlin, and why.

“Tell me,” he starts angrily, only to find that the words won’t come out. Merlin’s name chokes in his throat, holding the rest of his words hostage. Arthur sighs, closing his eyes in resignation because he knows he won’t get his answer tonight. “Tell me… Tell me about the stars,” he says instead.

Emrys is silent for a while, as if he knows that that wasn’t what Arthur had wanted to say. But he sees Arthur’s request as the olive branch it was intended to be and tells him stories about the night skies.

oOo

On one of the nights where Emrys tells him old legends of the past, he talks about a youth who had known the love of a god who, upon meeting death, was transformed into a flower to be forever held immortal. He tells this story as Arthur plays with the petals of a tiny flower by his head.

“Have you ever loved before?” Arthur asks because he’s genuinely curious. He knows now that Emrys is capable of kindness despite what his father had told him, but he wonders if sorcerers have the ability to love.

The light in Emrys’ eyes shutters. “Of course,” he says to Arthur’s surprise. “I had - have - a mother. I never really knew my father, but I had a mentor whom I cared about. There was a girl that I might have loved, if I’d known her better…” he trailed off wistfully. “And I love my king.”

Arthur doesn’t know if he’s the king Emrys is talking about, but he doesn’t see how he would be. He’s about to let the topic drop when Emrys speaks again.

“And you, Arth - sire.” Emrys speaks in a heavy voice, like he’s asking despite his better judgement. “Do you love anyone?”

And what a question. Arthur’s lips draw into a grim line. “I love my people. I love my knights.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Emrys says softly.

“I know.”

Several moments of silence pass. “You don’t have to answer if…” Emrys starts, just as Arthur says,

“I love my sister. Even if she doesn’t love me anymore.” He confesses this for the first time. Tears well up for the Morgana who is now long dead, replaced by someone she would have hated. He clears his throat hoarsely. “I loved my father. I loved my mother, though I never knew her.”

“I’m sorry,” says Emrys sincerely.

Arthur lets out a trembling breath, wondering if now is the time to talk about it.

“And I had a friend,” he says. He reaches up and wipes a tear away impatiently. He doesn’t want to seem weak. “I didn’t realise I loved him until the day he died.”

“…I’m sorry,” Emrys says again, his tone much more loaded this time. “I didn’t know how much his death affected you,” he says quietly, like he’s speaking more to himself than he is to Arthur.

Righteous anger flares up inside of Arthur. “Well, a lot is the answer,” he snaps. “And now I just want to know why you killed him.”

Emrys turns to face him. “What?”

“At Emrys’ feet Merlin will fall, and from Merlin’s demise he shall rise, I heard the prophecy. I know you were there the day Morgana attacked Camelot. Tell me, why did you kill Merlin?”

“Is this why you hate me?” Emrys asks incredulously.

“I want your answer.”

Emrys stares in bewilderment at Arthur. He laughs. “Wait, no, sorry, you probably took that the wrong way,” he amends when Arthur’s expression turns murderous. “I didn’t kill Merlin.”

Arthur’s expression doesn’t change. “So you just happened help Morgana invade Camelot, and something else just happened to occur to Merlin, and the prophecy just happened to have said Merlin would die by your hand.”

“Arthur, I swear to you, I did not hurt your friend. Prophecies use cryptic phrases all the time. I was there at Camelot to stop Morgana, not help her, I’d been keeping an eye on you because I was prophesied to serve by your side, I told you that before.”

“What cryptic message could ‘At Emrys’ feet Merlin will fall’ possibly mean?”

“I don’t kn - I swear, on my mother’s life, that I did not hurt Merlin, nor did I bear any ill will towards him,” Emrys says, eyes boring into Arthur’s urgently, doing all he can to convey innocence.

It would be oh so easy to believe that Emrys is lying. Perhaps his mother is already dead, or perhaps Emrys is enough of a monster not to care about her wellbeing.

But no.

Arthur had spent enough time with him to know that Emrys is not that kind of person. Since the beginning of their quest, Arthur had struggled to reconcile the man who had murdered his manservant in cold blood with the man who had healed the wing of an injured bird, who had splashed Arthur playfully in a ravine, who told stories from old mythologies with sparks in his eyes. Now everything makes sense.

It had been easier to blame one man, hate one man for what had happened to Merlin. Now Arthur must live with the fact that he will never know what happened to Merlin, or how he died. Something trembles deep inside his chest.

“My father passed away that day,” Arthur says, less with the intention of speaking to Emrys than he is trying to process his thoughts out loud. “I realised I had to appreciate the people around me while they were there. I’d yelled at Merlin earlier and I - I wanted to be kinder, and then - he was - he was gone.”

Emrys looks like he’s about to cry. “He knows, Arthur,” he says hoarsely. “He knows you cared for him.”

“I knew about the prophecy,” Arthur continues. “I should have been more attentive.”

“It’s not your fault,” Emrys tells him. “It’s not your fault.”

Arthur turns away from him because he can’t bear the pitying look in his eyes.

oOo

In the morning, they don’t speak of what happened. They ride in silence for the first time in a long while.

Suddenly, Emrys comes to a halt.

Arthur thinks perhaps he wants to talk and is quickly formulating a plan to get out of the situation, but then the warlock slides off his horse and walks to the middle of an open plane. He crouches down to feel the soil. When he stands up, he turns to face Arthur.

“We’re here,” he says.


	3. The Rebirth

The ground slams into Arthur’s feet as they exit the portal. He stumbles forwards, narrowly keeping his balance and ignoring Emrys’ offered arm. Blinking back the sunlight that contrasts sharply with the dim overcast back in the mortal realm, Arthur takes a quick survey of the green fields that surround them.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Emrys asks. He takes a deep breath, arms outstretched like a cross. The tall, wild grass tickles at his sides. 

Arthur, however, is concerned about more practical matters.

“Where are the dragons?” he asks, scanning the cloudless sky above them.

Emrys gives him a mysterious smile from below his mask of smoke. With a gesture to follow him, he takes off in a sprint towards the edge of the field. Following close behind, Arthur can see that just before the horizon the field drops off into a sharp cliff. For a second it seems like Emrys is going to jump straight off the ledge, but he slows to a stop just before he goes tipping over.

“Don’t startle,” the sorcerer grins cheekily before peering over the cliff.

Arthur follows suit and does exactly that. Below them in a sprawling valley is an entire field of dragons. Some are snoozing in the grass, tails flicking lazily in the wind, while others are trotting idly here and there. Arthur’s attention is drawn to a pair of smaller dragons chasing each other around a larger dragon. One of them scuttles over the larger dragon’s back, only to be swatted off like an annoying mosquito. It’s like watching a pair of untrained hunting dogs bothering a weary old hound.

“How do we get them all the way back to Camelot?” Arthur asks, just managing to tear his attention away.

Emrys smiles gently. It seems there’s always a softness about his expression, and the dimples on his chin are somehow warm and familiar. 

“I’m a dragonlord. All I have to do is command them, and they will follow." There’s something about the way he speaks that makes his words sound matter-of-fact rather than boastful. “Although perhaps it’s a good idea that you first make friends with the dragons while we’re here so that they will still listen to you when we part ways.”

“How long will that take?”

“Dragons are trusting creatures; it’s for that reason Uther wiped them out so easily.” Emrys’ expression turns somber as he surveys the dragons below them. For a brief moment, Arthur wonders if the sorcerer wants him to make friends with the dragons as much for their sake as it is for Camelot’s. “It should take a week at most. Time here passes differently than outside, so you don’t have to worry about leaving your people.”

Arthur nods, the unspoken point of anxiety put to rest by that statement. At Arthur’s acceptance, Emrys gives a turn of the wrist and tall clay stairs emerge from the cliff face. As they descend, the sun appears further and further away, a perfect parallel to Arthur’s growing apprehension.

Emrys takes the lead, advancing towards a single dragon basking in the coolness of the shade of a tree. “Hello,” he greets, giving a respectful half-bow. “My companion and I have come to study the way of the dragons. May we approach you?”

The dragon tilts its head in study, giving the two humans a careful look. Apparently satisfied by their sincerity, the tension in its spine relaxes and it lowers its head back down to nestle into a lounging position. 

“Are you sure we’re allowed to touch him?” Arthur asks when Emrys advances towards the dragon with an outstretched hand.

“He’s given us permission,” Emrys replies, smoothing out the scales on the dragon’s left flank. 

Not one to have his bravado outdone, Arthur musters his false courage and joins Emrys by the dragon’s side. The creature eyes Arthur’s approach, as if aware of his unease, causing Arthur’s hand to falter just before it touches the dragon. Yet Arthur’s aware of Emrys’ gaze that seems oh so judgemental, so he reaches out quickly and splays his hand across the dragon’s scales. 

Though the high noon sun is hot, the dragon’s scales are surprisingly cool to the touch. Arthur runs his hands down the dragon’s flank - or as much of it as is within reach -and marvels at the smoothness of the ridges. The dragon’s eyes flutter shut as they stroke his side.

There’s a small sound between a chirp and a croak behind them. A dragon no taller than Arthur’s waist stumbles towards them carefully. Every once in a while it glances back at a larger dragon that’s hovering behind it who’s eyeing the humans cautiously. “It looks like someone wants to make friends,” says Emrys, a smile in his tone. He kneels down to welcome the little dragon who pounces towards him excitedly. The sorcerer laughs happily as the fledgling flits around him, tugging at his clothes and batting at the smoke over his face. 

Despite himself, Arthur feels himself breaking into a grin.

oOo

In the evening, Emrys leads him to a temple where they are to keep shelter for the night. There’s a large area for worship in the entrance lounge. Emrys bring them forward to an offering table and picks up several bundles of food. Arthur can hardly believe his eyes as Emrys brings them past the lounge and through one of the side doors into a dining area.

“Isn't that disrespectful?” he asks when Emrys lays out the bundle of food on a table.

Emrys, who’s biting into a loaf of bread, looks at him in amusement. “Do I strike you as someone who would defile a temple of worship, your majesty?”

_Well, you_ have _just appropriated someone’s religious offerings_ , Arthur thinks, but he’s too confused to string together the words. Emrys takes pity on him.

“This is my temple,” he explains. “As in, the temple is to worship me. Or, my spirit, I suppose. Whenever people leave offerings for me, anywhere across the realms, it comes here.”

“I haven’t realised you made enough of a name for yourself to have people worship you,” Arthur says. The familiar cynicism settles in. Maybe Emrys is a sorcerer that travels the mortal realm, helping people and building up his own religion in order to curate power back here in the magical realm. He doesn’t know if Emrys disgusts him because it might be true, or if he disgusts himself for thinking it.

Emrys shakes his head. “Not me. My spirit.” He takes another decisive bite of bread to show that the conversation is over.

They spend the next couple days in the valley with the dragons. After seeing that the humans have caused no harm so far, curiosity begins to spread among the rest of the dragons and they crowd over to study the two companions more closely. Arthur, for his part, gets rather attached to a nest of fledgling dragons. They worm their way into his heart the way that no human or animal has in a long time, not since he ascended the throne. It’s not like the dragons care that he’s the ruler of some mortal kingdom.

In the evenings they bid the dragons goodnight and trek up the hills to Emrys’ temple. They eat quietly, talking about the dragons, but nothing more. Arthur misses the odd mythologies that Emrys had told back on their journey here. He’s surprised that he yearns for Emrys to speak to him, but it seems like the sorcerer has given up on making friends.

On the third night, Arthur turns restlessly on his bed. The air is perfumed with humidity that sticks to his skin. Rolling off the bed, Arthur decides to climb up the temple tower where the open air might help to cool him off.

When he finally makes it to the top, he’s surprised and a little thrilled to find Emrys sitting by the window. The sorcerer’s back is to him, though no doubt he’s heard Arthur’s footsteps. His silhouette contrasts against the light of the starry sky. He sits so still he looks like a painting framed by the window ledge, except for the wind that ruffles his hair.

Arthur walks softly across the room and sits beside him. He closes his eyes and lets the quiet engulf him for a moment.

“Do you like it here, Arthur?” Emrys asks suddenly. The silence shatters like glass.

“I do,” answers Arthur honestly.

Emrys tilts his face away. “That’s good,” he says softly.

Arthur waits for a follow-up that doesn’t come. “Why do you ask?”

A pause. “Maybe there’s hope yet that you’ll grow to accept people like me.”

“Sorcerers.”

A shake of the head. “Anything magic, really.”

Arthur lets the silence stretch out between them. There’s something about the way the darkness of the night shrouds you in anonymity, making you feel like you could tell someone anything. He can feel something being created between him and Emrys, a common vulnerability in this moment removed from time.

“I’m lonely,” he confesses.

“I’m sorry.”

Arthur shakes his head. He doesn’t need sympathy. “I lost my father, my sister, and my friend. Two of them I lost on the same day I became king. And I never even had the chance to mourn them.” What he needs is someone to understand. “Nobody wants to see their king being weak.”

“Arthur,” Emrys says his name tenderly, like they’re friends. Like they’re equals. “Emotions are not weakness.”

If Emrys were Merlin, Arthur would shove him in the shoulder and tell him to stop being a girl. But Emrys is not Merlin. He’s an all powerful sorcerer, someone who Arthur had met not long ago. Something sinks in his stomach and he feels cold all of a sudden. Merlin was his friend. Emrys is not Merlin. Emrys is not his friend, Emrys is a sorcerer, and Emrys will never be his friend.

“I’m lonely too,” says Emrys, just as Arthur is about to stand up and leave. 

Below them, some faeries are dancing, their lights drawing little ribbons against the velvet darkness. Emrys traces their movements in the air. 

“Do you want to hear another tale?” He asks Arthur.

“Yes.”

Emrys hums in contentment. “Long ago, according to the Old Religion, there were Gods that kept the balance in nature. Some controlled the elements, others had more spiritual elements, such as love, belief, energy.

"Eventually, the times evolved and sophisticated civilization had little need for the gods anymore. Such came the divide between man and nature. Without the need to worship the land, man wanted to control it, cultivate it, manipulate it for its own purposes. The gods watched from a distance. They were concerned that the rift between man and nature would grow wider and wider, eventually becoming unsustainable.

"The gods devised a plan. They would send one of themselves, the God of Magic, into the mortal realm. He was to be reborn as a human, complete with human experiences and human memories. He would be able to mend the rift from the position of a mortal.”

Arthur watches the wisps of golden energy dance around Emrys’ palms as he speaks. “You,” he says, more of a statement than a question.

Emrys breathes a long breath from his nose. “Yes. I am not a sorcerer. I am magic itself.” He turns to Arthur for the first time that night. “I understand what you mean about loneliness, sire.”

oOo

“I want to show you somewhere,” Emrys tells him the next morning as they grind some herbs to make a salve. One of the dragons has developed scale irritation from the hot dry air.

“What are you _doing_?” Arthur stumbles backwards in alarm when Emrys suddenly climbs on top of one of the dragons, straddling it like a horse. As much as he’s grown fond of the dragons over the past couple days, the thought of _riding_ one of the creatures seems preposterous.

“Are you scared?”

“No,” Arthur shoots back petulantly. He hesitates for a second - only for a second! - when one of the dragons lowers herself for Arthur to climb on. Marching boldly forward, he struggles for a moment with where to grip before nestling his foot on one of the ridges and swinging his leg over the dragon’s neck.

“Hold on tight!” Emrys calls. His dragon rears itself and Arthur is reminded of how formidable dragons truly are as it towers over him, eclipsing him in its shadow. Then it kicks off into the sky.

Arthur barely has enough time to register that this is a terrible idea before the ground below him seems to rumble and his dragon is speeding off as well. Flattening himself against the dragon’s neck, he tries not to think about how high off the ground they are.

His dragon draws level with Emrys’.

“Looks around us!” Emrys shouts, his voice drowned out by the roaring wind around them, but Arthur can read his lips.

There is nothing Arthur wants less than to be reminded that a casual lean to the side is enough to send him tumbling hundreds of feet to the ground. Would Emrys’ magic be enough to save him if that were to happen?

Three shapes pull up under their dragons. It’s the baby dragons that Arthur’s grown so fond of. Something unclenches in his stomach. Even if Emrys couldn’t save him, he knows the dragons wouldn’t let him fall. He chances a look at the scene below him.

And what a scene. They’d left the valley behind and now there’s a steep red-clay canyon below them, spidering off into the distance. Behind them, the grassy fields stretch into the horizon, not a cloud in sight.

“We’re going to ascend,” Emrys’ voice magically floats toward Arthur. 

Arthur wraps his arms around his dragon’s neck, clinging on dearly as they make the climb. He can see their target, a tall mountain not far in the distance. As they soar up its sheer face, Arthur observes the crystalline streams running down the hill and breaking into a perfect waterfall.

When they reach the top of the mountain, Arthur realizes that the dragons have brought them to a little spring. They land on a little white-rock beach. The second Arthur dismounts, his dragon sprints into the water, leaving a trail of splashes behind her.

With a wave of his arm, Emrys’ clothes change from his long summer robes into a flowing white tunic. He gives Arthur a questioning tilt of the head. At Arthur’s nod, he waves his arm again so that Arthur has a similar change of clothes.

“The springs here replenish your energy,” Emrys explains, wading into the water. He cups the water, clear as glass, brings it above his head and pours it on himself. He tilts his had back, drinking in the sunshine and letting the water run down his body.

Arthur reaches down towards the stream as well. To his surprise, the water evades him, leaving a steady dip where his hands have reached down. “Why can’t I touch the water?” he asks.

Emrys’ smile falls a little. There’s tension in his shoulder lines. “Oh,” he says in a soft voice. “I had been hoping…”

“What?”

“The spring only welcomes those who are friends of magic,” Emrys tells him. He’s still smiling though, as if to show Arthur that there’s no hard feelings. “It’s no matter. You can still come into the spring. You just won’t be able to touch the water.”

Arthur rather thinks that the whole point of entering a body of water is to get wet. He barely has a moment to be sullen, however, because the fledglings are running towards him, nudging him forward into the pond with their snouts. Laughing, Arthur lets himself be dragonhandled into the water. His heart feels light as he watches the dragons prance around each other, flicking splashes of water at each other with their tales and wings.

His attention, however, is drawn to Emrys, who’s joined in on the horseplay. The sorcerer’s eyes glow golden as he swipes forward waves of water, soaking the giant creatures from head to claw. He’s reminded of just several days ago when the two of the were roughhousing in a stream. 

A while later when the dragons are tired and stretch out across the beach for a nap, Emrys dives into the water one last time before heading to shore. His white tunic clings to his chest and back, almost translucent. Arthur looks a little too long, feeling a long-forgotten sensation of heat and longing. Emrys has the same body as someone else Arthur had pined after long ago, although a little more muscular. 

_Merlin is dead_ , the intrusive thought scolds him. A cold rush of shame douses whatever desire Arthur had felt earlier.

Emrys lays out across a glittery white slab of stone, letting the sun dry his wet clothes and matted hair. Sitting a careful distance from him, Arthur watches the rippling of the water’s surface, a hair’s breadth away from serenity and turmoil.

“Do you have your memories from being a god?” he asks.

Emrys’ expression doesn’t change, but his the corners of his lips quirk down. “No. I was born completely human. I lived a normal life. I had a different name. I didn’t even know I was Emrys for a long time.”

“How did you find out?”

“Cruelly,” Emrys replies with surprising harshness. “The gods tore me from my mortal life, stripped me of my memories, sealed me in the temple that you found me in. They sent me scriptures and visions in my sleep until I remembered that I was Emrys.”

It sounded horrible. 

“Why?”

“Because I was growing too attached to the mortal world. There were many times in my life when I had to make a decision between the wellbeing of my friends and the sake of the magical cause. I chose my friends each time. So they took away my ability to choose.”

“But you have the memories of your mortal life back. You can go back to your friends now.”

Emrys pushes himself up so that he’s eye-level with Arthur. “How can I?” he asks accusingly. He meets Arthur’s eyes like a challenge. “After knowing the task that I’m burdened with, how can I go back? If I’ll always have to choose between y - between my friends and magic, I can’t afford to pick my friends anymore.”

Arthur’s stares back, accepting the challenge. “Why would you have to choose?”

For a solid minute, Emrys doesn’t break eye contact. It’s long enough that Arthur starts to think that his periwinkle eyes are a bit too familiar, when Emrys says, “My friends don’t trust sorcerers. And I don’t think that’s ever going to change.”

There’s nothing Arthur can say to that. He can’t even express his condolences because how hypocritical would that be, speaking as someone who doesn’t trust magic either? Instead, he looks away.

For the next while, Arthur watches the sun slowly finish climbing its arc across the sky. He can see the maze of canyons in the distance and the valley where they came from far, far over the horizon. It’s strange to have spent almost an entire day just sitting still, appreciating life. The busy schedules back in Camelot seem like a lifetime ago. He almost wishes he doesn’t have to go back.

Before long, the baby blue of the sky dips into a soft lilac and then all of a sudden breaks into a concoction of pinks and oranges. It’s funny that even in a completely different realm, the sunset is still the same. Arthur glances back at Emrys to share a look of wonder.

He’s surprised and a little endeared to see that Emrys has fallen asleep. 

For some time, Arthur has wondered about the significance of the mask around Emrys’ face. What difference would it make whether people knew what he looked like? It can’t be a status symbol, for Emrys seems like he couldn’t care less about such a thing. Perhaps it hides a hideous deformation.

The smoke that usually shrouds Emry’s features now solidifies into a proper mask, which makes sense; it’s probably too much to keep up the spell in one’s sleep. 

A sudden thought occurs to Arthur, so ridiculous yet so possible that an odd surge of hope sears within him. It burns his heart. It hurts so much that Arthur has to find out, has to know right now. His arm reaches out involuntarily and hovers an inch away.

Emrys doesn’t move. 

If he does it, Arthur’s pretty sure he could get away with it. 

His heart pounds in his chest.

Nobody would ever know.

He drops his hand.  His heart is still pounding. 

He steadies his ragged breathing and watches the sorcerer for a long time.

oOo

One day, as they’re sitting in their meadow, Arthur rubbing salve on one of the dragons’ peeling scales, Emrys watches him with a contemplative expression.

“I think it’s time for us to go back.”

Arthur’s head snaps up. It’s been a question at the back of his mind for a while now but one to which he hasn’t given voice. It’s nice here, away from the burden of the throne. He imagines he can stay here for the rest of his life with Emrys’ quiet company. He can stay here for years and years and no time would have passed at all back in Camelot.

“You’ve bonded quite well with the dragons,” Emrys continues. “It’ll get harder to leave the longer we stay,” he adds gently, as if reading Arthur’s thoughts.

“Shall we leave tomorrow then?” Arthur asks, betraying none of his emotions.

He receives a nod in return. “Tomorrow it is.”

That night, Arthur climbs up the tower where he knows Emrys is watching the stars. The man is standing on a balcony in front of an open window, arms crossed over the railing.

“Where will you go after we go back?” asks Arthur when he’s standing behind him.

Emrys shrugs. “I guess I’ll keep traveling the lands, helping people, building goodwill between mortals and magic.”

“You won’t go back to your friends?”

Turning around to face Arthur, Emrys speaks very softly. “When I was first removed from my mortal life, I was shut in a temple just like this one. I spent a lot of time reading religious tablets, crystal gazing, watching the stars. I’ve gotten used to loneliness.”

“Don’t you miss your friends at all?” Arthur asks.

Emrys laughs shakily. “I miss them every day, Arthur. But I can’t go back. There’s too much at stake.”

Arthur nods like he understands.

oOo

The portal opens and a long line of dragons wait behind them. Arthur chances one last look at Emrys.

“Stay in Camelot,” he says.

But Emrys shakes his head. “I will be present whenever you need me, sire.” And with that, he turns away and steps in front of the portal. There is a moment’s pause. A heartbeat. A realisation.

A leap of faith.

“Merlin!” Arthur calls, half a second before Emrys walks through the portal. 

The sorcerer whips around. The smoke around his face evaporates. He stares at Arthur in bewilderment.

“ _You knew_?” Merlin asks. His voice sounds like his own, not the odd multi-tiered voice that he has been using up until now.

All the words in Arthur’s vocabulary vanish. He goes through a tumultuous flurry of emotions - astonishment, relief, joy, betrayal, anger, sorrow - before he can speak again. “I was beginning to suspect,” he says at last. “I wasn’t sure.”

Merlin continues to stare at him as if Arthur was the one who had given Merlin the shock of the century and not the other way around. Finally, his expression crumbles. “I can’t go back with you, Arthur. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to choose, Merlin, I’ll lift the ban on magic.”

“You don’t understand, Arthur. There will always be times when a sorcerer puts you in danger, or you pass a policy on magic I don’t agree with. I will choose you each time. I don't trust myself in that position. I would give up my magic in a heartbeat.”

Merlin looks truly distraught, but apologetic. _He won’t budge_ , Arthur realises, and Arthur is too prideful to ask again. He’s never begged anyone for anything in his entire life, and he certainly isn’t going to do so for a futile cause.

Spinning around, Arthur finds the nearest dragon and leaps onto its back.

“Arthur!” Merlin calls out below him just as the dragon heeds Arthur’s command and takes off.

Having no idea which direction to go, Arthur hopes the dragon knows where it’s flying. They reach the canyons, which assures him that they’re flying towards the correct general area. 

Soon, they’re swooping up the mountain and breaking through the clouds towards the springs. The second his dragon lands, Arthur slides onto the smooth rock and walks so that he’s an inch away from the crystal pool. Behind him, there’s a rustling of wings as Merlin lands with his dragon.

Arthur waits until Merlin dismounts as well. He wants his full attention. When they find each other’s gazes, Arthur turns back to the pool.

_Please,_ he beseeches the gods, begging for the first time in his life. He kneels down to cup the water. His hands slide smoothly into the cool liquid, leaving a trickle down his arm when he brings his palms up to drink from them.

Merlin’s eyes are moist. “Oh,” is all he says.

Arthur wipes his mouth with the back of his arm. “You don’t have to choose,” he repeats again. “We can fulfill your destiny together. We’ll bring magic back to the land, starting with Camelot.”

Merlin reaches towards Arthur for an embrace but aborts quickly, likely remembering the last time he tried to hug his king. Arthur’s heart aches with how poorly he’s treated Merlin in the past. He pulls Merlin into a firm hug, burying his face into the other man’s neck. It’s nice. He closes his eyes against the grief and love that blossoms in his chest. He feels Merlin’s grip tighten around him.

“Stay with me,” Arthur whispers. Merlin shivers.

“Okay,” he whispers back. 

There are many questions between them that are still left unanswered. At least they have time to ask them in the many years that are yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this took a while to churn out. It warms my heart reading how much you guys enjoy the story; your comments encourage me to keep writing. Thanks for sticking with me, and until next time <3


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